


Aware of You

by MisMiz (Jaaaaack51)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Friendship/Love, Internal Monologue, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, Sappy, Short One Shot, Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaaaaack51/pseuds/MisMiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezra contemplates love and waxes a little poetic about the color of Chris's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aware of You

**Author's Note:**

> Brief reference to the pilot episode. But basically this is just Ezra indulging himself in angst, slightly purple prose, and maybe an Oscar Wilde reference, while wallowing in his feelings.

_The heart was made to be broken_  
_Ezra Standish via Oscar Wilde_

I am aware of your presence. Even without looking up from the cards in my hand, I know you have just entered the saloon. My right hand trembles. I rest it on my leg, out of sight, and dig my fingers into my leg until the trembling subsides. Those fingers will leave bruises in their wake. The phrase “Love Hurts” can be taken quite literally in my case. But the bruises are less painful than your questions would be.

The trembling has subsided. I toss some money into the pot on the table in front of me and take a sip of my drink, scarcely noticing its taste. Most of my attention is focused on your tall, lean figure making its way towards the bar. You order a whiskey and sip it slowly as you turn to survey the room. Your gaze slides over me and I smile eagerly. If I had a tail it would wag. No dog could be more desperate for your attention. I disgust myself. But when you nod your head in return and quirk your lips upward in what might be construed as a smile by the charitably inclined, I feel amply rewarded. It seems my pride is a paltry thing compared to your smile.

Having received my "pat on the head" from you, so to speak, I am able to concentrate on the game long enough to win all the money my fellow players are willing to part with. And a good deal that they weren't. If only your heart could be won so easily. I have learned, however, that hearts cannot be won, they must be freely given. And who would gift their heart to a gambler and a con man?

Life was much simpler before you came along. Then I knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. Love was an affliction. Friendship was a hindrance. Loyalty was fleeting. I never imagined that any of those things would apply to me. But then I do a number of things nowadays that would have been unimaginable in my former life.

Love seems to be making a new man of me. I wonder what Mother would say? Something along the lines of what a fool I am, no doubt. And perhaps she would be correct. A part of me would even agree with her. But a bigger part of me refuses to believe that. The part born when your cool, steady gaze reached into my soul and offered me a precious gift. The gift of trust.

No one had ever trusted me before. The feelings that engendered frightened me more than any drunken, angry lynch mob ever had. Frightened me enough that I almost cast that trust aside. I still dream about that day you know. I dream that I never came back. Or that I came back too late. And you lay there, broken and bleeding in the dirt in that godforsaken village, cursing my name as you died. I wake up screaming. It is a truly terrifying dream.

I know that one day we will go our separate ways. I entertain no illusions that you will ever return my feelings. But that day is not now.

Now I am still able to see you. To see the sunlight shining on your hair, turning it into spun gold. The grace and strength apparent in your body as you lean casually against the bar.

Now I am still able to hear you. To hear your soft voice in my ear. Like silk and steel it wraps around me, binding me tighter with every word.

Now I am still able to touch you. A casual hand on the shoulder. A brushing of fingertips as we both reach for something. You seduce me with your slightest touch.

I hoard these memories like a miser hoards his gold. One day, all too soon, they will be all I have left. Yes indeed, Mr. Larabee. Loving you hurts. It is my misfortune that not loving you hurts even worse.

The End


End file.
